


Blood or Bond

by Aly_H



Category: Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Attempted Murder, Bard Tabris, Canon-Typical Violence, Flashbacks, M/M, Major injuries, Minor Injuries, Nate recruited during the Blight
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-15
Updated: 2018-09-05
Packaged: 2019-06-27 19:22:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15691794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aly_H/pseuds/Aly_H
Summary: An AU where Nathaniel Howe is in Ferelden during the Blight and is recruited by the Warden following an attempt by Rendon to get rid of his son for asking too many questions.------"In a Quiver" is a character-centric series that collects all fics written about Evander Tabris. These can all be read independently from one another.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Do you know what's better than writing the actual canon story to how a couple gets together? Writing an AU of it instead! 
> 
> If there are any additional tags that would have helped you as a reader please, please let me know in the comments. I try to tag for everything I can think of but sometimes I miss stuff.

_“Nate! Nate!” Oren’s voice caught his attention behind him in the hall and he turned only to watch the familiar halls consumed with flame, his feet splashing in a viscous red liquid. The child’s voice changed from cheerful to terrified – crying out in the darkness. “Nate!”_

_A hand grasped his shoulder and he turned, spinning to ward off an attack only to see Fergus, Oriana’s limp body cradled in his arms, “Nate….how could you?”_

Gasping he tumbled from the bed, shaking as he found the basin of water and splashed it on his face.

The hearth fire had died down to mere embers in the early morning light – the still unfamiliar room in Denerim no more welcoming than the nightmares. He had practically grown up in Highever, he’d stood as Fergus’s best man during his wedding – young Eveline relegated to serving as one of Oriana’s ladies despite threats to duel Nathaniel for the position.

They were all gone now though. He had ridden ahead to Ostagar with Fergus, preferring to ride with his friend than his kin on the long journey to the war. He hadn’t known what was to come…

If he had he would never have left the Cousland’s to face _that_ fate. Surely he could have talked Bryce down, convinced him to surrender to justice when the evidence of their betrayal had come to light. Instead he had escaped Ostagar by virtue of riding in Loghain’s troops and returned North to find that his father had been forced to cut the Cousland’s down for betraying the crown.

It was hard to believe…they of all people would have betrayed Ferelden but there was proof. There had to be for the Crown to reward his father as it had for his actions. Granted the Terynir of Highever _and_ the Arling of Denerim with the loss of Urien at Ostagar and the murder of his son at the hands of some elven thief.

Nathaniel Howe steadied his breath, slowly, laboriously – the Couslands had betrayed Ferelden. They had fought when his father tried to convince them to surrender. That was why they were dead. Oriana’s and Oren’s deaths had been accidents, his father would never have _tried_ to harm the little lad let alone have him murdered.

There wouldn’t be any return to sleep after that dream so instead he busies himself, checking the packs that he carefully piled at the door the night before. Insuring that his supplies are in place.

His father has given him a task – it is not glorious, nor is it the one he wished. He should be with Thomas fighting in the army – looking after his brother - not hunting a pack of traitors through Ferelden’s back country.

Still, he has been given this task, this mission.

It is his duty to fulfill it.

He’d capture the Wardens and bring them back to Denerim for trial. His father had ordered their deaths but…it would not be _justice_ to see them butchered on some nameless road. Ferelden needed to be better than that.

The sacrifices the last generation had made to free them from Orlais would mean nothing if they let themselves become no better than the Orlesian despots had been only thirty years later.

The Wardens’ threat would soon be done and he would have the time to turn his attention to the questions that lingered over Ostagar and Highever. To deal with the questions left unanswered and the doubts that he couldn’t quite silence entirely.


	2. Chapter 2

The camp was slowly coming alive in the early hours – the eerie, mournful voice of his pan-flute likely doing little to aid his companions’ rest as his watch came to its end. It was one of the reasons that they had generally elected to give him either the first or the last watch but never any of those between.

The Warden kept playing, though he watched them from beneath his lashes:

The first to actually emerge from their tent was Alistair who spotted the porridge cooking over the fire and nodded blearily before wandering into the woods to use the latrine.

Not long after Sten was awake and working through the set of practice drills with his monstrously sized sword that he began each and every day with without failure.

Leliana joined him at the fire, putting together the makings for tea, but she didn’t say anything about the music. She rarely did unless it was to comment on the fortunes he might have made had he grown up in Halamshiral or Val Royeaux rather than Denerim. In Denerim he was a minstrel and the occasional thief – in Orlais he would have quickly found a patron as a Bard.

“Dreary as ever, my friend,” Zevran joined them at the fire. Their would-be assassin had yet to earn the trust of most of those in the camp but he personally thought that the blond was no longer a threat so long as he and Alistair did not make themselves threats to _him_.

“Van, put that away,” Wynne chided as she came to sit beside him. “And let me see your shoulder, young man.”

“Yes, Grandma,” the elf sighed as he set his flute aside and pulled his shirt off, letting the old healer examine the bandages and the injuries beneath while Alistair returned to finish handling breakfast’s preparations.

A lucky hurlock had managed to place an arrow on him a few days before. Even with magical healing it had had a ways to mend on its own. His body already beginning to pick up the resistances to the magic that old soldiers often suffered from.

“I am _not_ your grandmother, Evander Tabris,” Wynne informed him. “And I should consider myself very fortunate, you’re enough of a handful as an adult as it is. You and Alistair both.”

“I was a menace,” he conceded. “You should have met me before Mother Boann got a hold of me.”

“There’s a story there, no?” Leliana asked.

She passed him a cup of tea after he slid his shirt back on – Wynne’ inspection finished. The wound was healing well, he could feel the familiar itching in it that came from the application of magic to speed up the flesh knitting itself back together.

He gave a soft gasp, widening his eyes in faux shock as he stared at her, “Why, Leliana! I’m surprised at you. You of all people should know there is _always_ a story.”

“I hate you in the mornings,” Alistair informed him – not nearly awake enough to deal with a Van who had been up long enough to shake off his own grogginess. At his side the mabari they had saved at Ostagar huffed in agreement – Lute, despite his name, lacked much of his master’s playful nature.

“No you don’t,” Van grinned. “I’m your favorite, and you know it.”

“No,” Alistair informed him, stifling a yawn. “ _Lute_ is my favorite, and Wynne.”

“Betrayal,” he hissed dramatically as if in pain, placing a hand at his chest and collapsing into Leliana’s giggling side. “Do you hear him, Leli? I am laid low by his cruel and callous words – my heart wrenched from my chest by my own Warden brother!”

“Parshaara,” Sten’s glare as he joined the party – Morrigan never did join them in the morning until just before they broke camp - was enough to reduce both the bards to a fit of giggles but they calmed down enough to eat.


	3. Chapter 3

The forest had fallen silent – the bellowing of the ogre that had shook it moments before quieted into an unnatural hush. They had remained hidden, watching, during the battle to see if there was a chance these Darkspawn might finish the job for them.

Ivor Ruskin hesitated. He was one of the meanest killers in Ferelden – it was how he got his job working for old Rendon. It was also why he had been given the task of keeping an eye on the oldest Howe brat.

Little Nate was to prove himself by bringing the Wardens’ heads to his old man or die by their hand. Whether the Wardens _actually_ killed him or not was entirely at Ivor’s discretion. Not that honorable, trusting Nathaniel Howe who for all his vocal doubts about what _really_ happen the night they’d burned Highever and at Ostagar still bought the line about the Couslands and Wardens conspiring to betray Ferelden and murder a king - hook, line and sinker.

That was what happened if the apple fell too far from the proverbial tree, he supposed. That sapling would have to be cut down to keep order. Ivor just happened to have been given the axe.

Down below the Wardens and their adorable little friends were regrouping – their battle with the Spawn had been no joke, even by _their_ foolhardy standards, and it showed in their movements.

The ginger haired elf who seemed to be giving directions was limping and his arm was cradled to his chest in a way that said it was useless – a good advantage to have over an _archer_.

“Go, now,” he told his men, freeing his blade from the sheath, it was time to see if heroes really _were_ that difficult to kill. “Cut them down before they even-“

Nathaniel glared at him – “I am in command, Ruskin. We go on my order.”

“Forgive me, _your lordship_ ,” he glared – Rendon wanted this blighter obedient or dead, not getting more of his leash in his teeth. “I thought that we might take advantage of their weakened state _before_ they had a chance to recover.”

Biting fury and a lifetime of frustration was written in those grey eyes – he was months away from snapping – if that - and it wouldn’t be pretty when he did, shame he would be dead before then, “We go, but they deserve a chance to surrender to the Crown’s justice with their honor.”

“Very well, lads, you heard his lordship – we’re gonna do this nice like. Keep bows trained but don’t go shooting until you got the word.”

He and his men settled their crossbows in their hold and followed Howe down the slope towards the Wardens’ party.

The ginger haired elf spotted them first, moving to position himself between the approaching men and the red haired woman that was being tended to by a mage-healer. _She_ wasn’t conscious and there was quite a bit of blood. That would keep the old crone from interfering.

The black haired witch looked almost ready to snarl. She had returned to human form, and given the lack of threatening fire he doubted she had all that much magic left in her. Wouldn’t be too dangerous unless she downed a lyrium potion, but then, he’d paid attention – most of _those_ had been burnt up in the fight.

The giant warrior and the second Warden, the ex-Templar with the uncanny resemblance to old king Maric had resettled their weapons, ready to fight still but they both looked beaten bloody and exhausted still. Of all of them the dog seemed in best shape, its muzzle coated in blood but only a few light scratches on its own coat.

“Well,” the elf spoke – his tone light and cheerful, his gaze sweeping over the company.  “You’re not with those dragon cultists from Haven, that’s good, didn’t want to explain why we murdered your goddess and her children and priests and most your brethren.”

“No…I am Nathaniel Howe – we are here to arrest you for your crimes against Ferelden and the Crown. Surrender now and you will be given a fair trial in Denerim.”

“Sweet of you to offer – you’re the first to try the ‘surrender and trial’ approach to this. But I’m going to have to decline.”

The noble brat’s attention was focused on the elf, he didn’t see Ivor shift his target off the Warden’s chest and to his unprotected back. Not until he was struck by the bolt, eyes widening as he went down to his knees with the force of it.

“Now, Warden,” Ivor chastised, “Look at what you’ve done. Murdering honorable Nathaniel Howe in cold blood – shooting him in the _back_ no less? Cowardly thing that.”

“Get tired of murdering babes in their cribs for sport, Ruskin?” the elf sneered, shifting his grip on his blades. Ruskin didn’t see the signal to attack though he knew it had been given when he felt the blade.

“ _Dulces sue_ _ños,”_ someone murmured in his ear as he fell – already sightless in death before he hit the ground. Those that he had commanded swift to follow him into the void.


	4. Chapter 4

The sound of a lute being tuned not far away made him groan – his whole body ached and for a moment he wondered if he had really died when Ruskin had shot him. He hadn’t expected to wake again but surely if he were dead he would not ache nearly so much.

“And so you return to the land of the living,” the bright, cheery voice came from the same direction as the lute had and he opened his eyes in the dim light of a cabin – holes in the thatch roof filtered in sunlight and he could hear the sound of people moving outside.

The Warden was using an old crate for a chair and grinned to him, as he set the lute aside. His injured arm bandaged lightly but clearly had been attended to be a mage so that there was little lasting harm done by the injury.

“Whe-?” he tried to speak but his voice emerged only as a croak. The water proffered after helped. “Where am I?”

“I’m, uh, not sure actually,” he admitted, blue-gray eyes dancing as he settled. “The Hinterlands somewhere, south of Redcliffe but we’re a little lost. Alistair and Sten have been arguing over which hills are which for the past three hours. They all look alike to me so I was told to go away. Wynne thought you might wake soon so I decided to keep you company.”

“Why am I alive?”

“Well,” the elf grinned brightly, “The Maker has a plan for us all, does he not? It is up to us to find-”

“When he’s done teasing you, Van would tell you it is because he is curious as to why your father would have you killed,” the red haired woman spoke up, sitting up in a cot on the opposite side of the room from him. Her movements were ginger, laced with her own pain – she was the one who had been thrown to the ground by the ogre and not gotten back to her feet. “That man would not have acted without orders.”

Nathaniel eyed the Warden – for a man who had evaded attack after attack and added Redcliffe back to the conflict _and_ brought the Circle of Magi under his banner the elf seemed to be an idiot. Perhaps he was lucky as to his companions and it was they who had orchestrated the successes. They certainly all seemed more competent but then…

He’d been certain it was this ginger haired fool that they took their direction from before.

A deep pit felt as if it opened in his chest – the Orlesian woman wasn’t wrong, Ruskin wouldn’t have acted without orders from his father…so then why? What had he done to be thrown away? Why..? He squeezed his eyes closed as if that might slow his decent into the mental abyss.

The elf settled back on the crate, watching him. His expression curiously still for someone who a moment before had worn a friendly grin when Nate opened his eyes again.

“Your father, he told you to kill us, didn’t he, Nate?”

Nathaniel glared at this elf looking at him with such open pity, “What does it matter to you?” he snarled.

Rendon wasn’t there, he couldn’t be angry at his father even as he struggled to comprehend the truth to those words – his father had tried to have him murdered, the Warden had saved his life. But this war, the difficulties that had led to him being cast away. Those were the fault of the Wardens...and there was only one Warden his anger might touch at the moment.

“I’m almost sorry I can’t let you kill me,” the Warden wasn’t smiling as he spoke softly, his voice dropped low enough that the woman in the cabin probably couldn’t hear him. “Family is family, even if they plan to murder you when you fail their tests.”

He picked up his lute once more and stood off the crate, that easy smile slipping back into place as he glanced over to the injured woman:

“Give a shout if either of you need anything. Wynne will likely be here to fuss at you soon though, so I suggest you get some rest while you can.”

With that the Warden had slipped out the door and soon those outside the rickety cabin were making enough noise that it would have been difficult to follow the muffled conversations even if exhaustion wasn’t already dragging him back into oblivion on like a heavy chain in deep water.


	5. Chapter 5

The days following waking up in the deserted cabin were head-ache inducing at their worst and utterly baffling for the remainder.

Evander Tabris proved to be far friendlier than anyone who was keeping you prisoner had the right to be. _Nate_ , this and _Nate_ , that all too common commentary on the road towards Redcliffe Castle when all he wished to do was retreat into his brooding thoughts and contemplate the ache in his ribs and back while watching for a chance to escape.

With his wrists bound together most the time and being watched constantly by three slightly paranoid rogues (whether he was friendly or not he _knew_ that Tabris was watching as closely as the Crow and Orleisan did) a chance at escape had yet to come.

He flashed a glare at the elf as he settled at the fire next to where Nathaniel had been directed to sit.

“You’re in a worse mood than usual, Nate.”

“Stop calling me that,” he snapped, his ability to weather the cheery elf finally worn through. “We’re not friends. I would kill you if I got the chance, Tabris.”

Hazel-gray eyes studied him, the usual grin fading a degree for a moment, before the elf shrugged, “Probably, but I’m hoping to change that. Your old man wants you gone – your best chance of survival is to throw in with your Uncle in South Reach, and we can use a friendly heir for Amaranthine.”

“I’m not…” he bit the words off, locking his jaws into silence. He wasn’t the heir. He hadn’t been for a long time. It wasn’t common knowledge that Thomas was instead, Nate being the eldest it was just assumed but the decision had been made long enough ago for him to accept that he wasn’t good enough to lead Amaranthine when the time came.

The ginger haired elf eyed him before turning his attention to jabbing at the fire with a stick until it was burning properly breathing out a frustrated breath, “Are there _any_ Ferelden nobles capable of making intelligent decisions? Maric refused his own damn son, Cailan throws his life away…” He shook his head, _tsk_ ing disapprovingly. “This is why I’m an artist, Nathaniel, it makes so much more sense than whatever nonsense is going on there.”

_Nathaniel_. Not Nate. It sounded strange, foreign even, coming from the elf’s mouth. He’d listened – glaring – through chatter about everything from complaints about forests ( _why are there so many damn trees?_ ) to a rambling contemplation on the nature of music in the Chantry. But he’d just told Tabris not to call him ‘Nate’ and he had listened.

“You’re a Warden,” he frowned. “And one of the most influential people in Ferelden right now.”

The elf flapped a hand at him in playful dismissal. “See, now, do you think anyone will believe it was _me_ that figured out this mess of treaties when this Blight ends? Alistair and Eamon will be remembered as the ones that saved Ferelden, I get to go back to being a cheap minstrel from Denerim’s alienage.”

“The stories they tell about you in the army already have you at ten feet tall and shooting lightning from your eyes,” he felt the corner of his mouth quirk upwards. Humor wasn’t encouraged at home – when he joked it was usually with Delilah or Fergus, and he wasn’t sure why he was choosing to banter with the chatty elf now. Maybe it was exhaustion?

He was still healing and the Hinterlands were not easy country to cross.

“Well _that’s_ a little dramatic.”

As Van’s attention was absorbed in the activities of the camp Nathaniel let himself ponder the Wardens for once. Alistair was barely out of his childhood and while more intelligent than he acted the former Templar was not political astute enough for a planned coup to be his doing, Theirin bastard or no. Evander was a bard but he didn’t seem like the sort to play Kingmaker.

The plot could have been something they had inherited but…Duncan had not seemed interested in power any of the times he had met the late Warden-Commander, only fulfilling the Grey Wardens’ duty against the Darkspawn. He had seemed…honorable.

Nathaniel had even spoken to him regarding joining the Wardens when his father had made Thomas the heir. The warrior had suggested he would make a fine recruit but had advised him to consider it carefully.

He’d decided not to – his grandfather had chosen the secretive warriors and abandoned their family, he might not be heir but he _would_ stay and help Thomas however he could…Duncan and Bryce Cousland were two men he’d never would have guessed to be traitors…but Loghain. He loved Cailan as a son. The claims that Alistair made _had_ to be false.

As dusk grew deeper and Tabris plucked a handful of melodies out on the worn old lute that he fussed over Nathaniel decided to be the one to _start_ one of their strange conversations.

Alistair and Sten were nearby working in the dimming light on various fighting techniques – it seemed that the qunari had taken to teaching the former Templar when there was time. The women had gone together to bathe, taking the Warden’s mabari with them.

Zevran Arainai had arranged a selection of alchemical supplies around him and was mixing rather potent poisons on the far side of the fire. Occasionally the assassin would glance up to take note of the others in the camp or complain if the music grew too melancholy.

Which left him, hands bound and simply observing the camp to entertain himself.

“…why did you become a Warden?”

Van glanced up at him from the strings, the considering expression he wore most frequently when being honest, “I was Conscripted, though if I had been asked before that day I would have agreed. As it was I had no choice.”

There was more to it and Nathaniel waited.

“…why do you want to know?” Van set the lute aside – his fingers had stilled with Nathaniel’s question anyways.

And…that was a good question too. Why did he care what drove the bard to join the Wardens?

“Curiosity.”

Zevran’s soft chuckle from across the fire caused him to cast a glare – what was worth laughing about there? Van rolled his eyes at the Antivan before focusing on Nathaniel instead.

“You know that traditionally our marriages are arranged by our elders in the alienage?” Van waited for his nod before continuing. “My wedding – it was a double wedding actually, probably what drew the unwanted attention in the first place - was interrupted by Vaughn Kendells. Ah, you’ve guessed where this is going.”

Nathaniel’s face had tightened in a grimace. There were reasons he disliked Vaughn. Many of them. However this story proceeded would not be pleasant. There were too many of his peers that felt elves were little more than playthings, many of them viewing them as lesser than mongrel curs.

“I have some martial skills-“

“I _had_ noticed,” the dry interjection made Van grin before it faded back again.

“So did Vaughn. One of his friends hit me from the back when I told them to leave. I woke up to my cousin Shianni and the brides. I guess he assumed that no one would follow.”

“You’re the one who killed them – I thought it was a thief…not…”

That got a laugh, “Not that day – I was only interested in saving the ladies. To do that I needed to make sure that I could get them _out_ of the arl’s palace without crossbow bolts raining on our heads. So I killed the guards. I shouldn’t have taken so long – it was safe leaving but I was too late…”

The guilty, haunted expression didn’t last long – tucked away behind a blander grimace but he’d seen it before the elf had hidden it away.

“Shianni was already hurt when I got there. I killed them. Quicker than they deserved. When we returned to the alienage the guard had come. I confessed that I acted alone.”

He was quiet for a long moment, deciding how to respond: “Thank you. For telling me.”

“I’m planning to use you to bait your uncle into solidifying his alliance with Eamon, I figure if I’m going to use you as a political pawn I should at least be honest with you. Especially since I really would rather you help willingly.”

“You’re asking me to betray my family, Tabris,” the friendly air snapped cold, shattering under the glare he fixed the elf with.

“I’m asking you to protect Ferelden, Nathaniel. I can't let you return to your father,” he picked up the instrument again, his attention falling once more on the strings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so the completely self-indulgent project continues. ^^' 
> 
> (I have a million things I should be doing (like sleeping! I gotta be up in like 3 hours) but I'm doing this instead. Yay for priorities.)

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! ^^
> 
> If you'd like to see me write something in particular you can find me on tumblr at Aly-the-writer


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